Real
by Lia-Osaka92
Summary: Victor wakes up with warmth in his chest and a smile on his lips. It's a familiar feeling, one that he's grown used to, and for that, he feels lucky. To be able to wake up next to the love of his life every morning, what bigger blessing can anyone ask for?


Victor wakes up with warmth in his chest and a smile on his lips. It's a familiar feeling, one that he's grown used to, and for that, he feels lucky. To be able to wake up next to the love of his life every morning, what bigger blessing can anyone ask for?

He turns to his side, heart full with excitement "Yuu—"

He's not there.

Victor is thrown aback. How odd. He's never been the kind to get up so early.

Victor grabs his phone to look at the time. Definitely too early, it's not even seven (he fleetingly feels that background picture isn't right, but he drops the phone too soon to dwell on it).

However too early it might be, Victor's hungry, so might as well get up and get breakfast going, maybe surprise his not-sleeping-anymore-beauty with something nice. With all his willpower, he throws the covers off and steps down from the bed, his feet finding cold tile floor.

Huh.

This isn't his room.

Well, it _is_ his room. In St. Petersburg, in the old apartment he keeps for when they come visit. But he's positive this isn't the room where he went to sleep last night. Not the room he _lives_ in. He tries to remember why he's here instead of home, but he comes up with nothing. Is his memory playing tricks on him?

He trods over to the bathroom that adjoins the room. Perhaps he should just let it go, but something about this feels odd and it's nagging at him. His love must know for sure, he's always been more grounded than Victor.

"Yuu—"

He's not there either.

Maybe he got up early to fix breakfast? What day is it? Maybe it's Victor's birthday and he wants to surprise him.

The apartment is awfully cold outside of the bedroom. It might be his birthday after all; he's too familiar with this late December chill.

Victor makes his way over to the kitchen, apprehension coiling in his gut. Passingly, he feels there are more medals and trophies than he remembers winning, and less picture frames on the shelves and tables. Something's definitely off.

"Hey, Y—"

The kitchen's empty too.

 _(calm down, calm down, he probably went for a morning run)_

Slightly frantic, he goes back to his room to get his phone ( _this background photo is definitely wrong_ ). Victor scrolls through his contacts. He's not panicking, not at all, he just needs to be sure.

Chris

Georgi

Mila

Yakov

Yuri Plisetsky

Y…

Y…

 _What was his name?_

Victor chokes.

 _What is his name._

Victor can't remember.

No, he has to remember, he's just letting the panic (he's not panicking, he's not panicking) get to him. He scrolls through his contacts over and over. Chris, Georgi, Mila, Yakov, Yuri Plisetsky. No name jumps up. But none should, right? He wouldn't find that name strange after all. It's a name he loves as much as he loves its owner. He loves hearing it, saying it, tasting it. There's no way he's forgotten, he's just sleepy, he could never ever forget the name of his husb—

He doesn't have his ring.

There's an explanation for this, for sure. He took it off before going to sleep (he's never done it before, but maybe something happened last night). He forgot to put it on after showering. He got it dirty and sent it to be polished. There's definitely an explanation for this (it's not in the bathroom, not in the kitchen, not in the dining table, not in his nightstand).

The radio's on. Victor didn't turn it on.

He sighs, relieved.

See? He's her—

 _Seven-time figure skating world champion Victor Nikiforov was declared "Most eligible bachelor of the year", due to his good looks, prestige and—_

What?

Victor's not a bachelor.

He's been married for years. Everyone knows this. Married to the love of his life ( _what is his name_ ). To the man that gave him his most prized piece of gold ( _where did I leave it_ ).

 _Victor remains extremely popular even though he's fallen off the public eye since he retired from figure skating three years ago. There were talks about him moving into coaching or choreographing, but sources close to him claim he's lost his inspiration and love for the sport._

There's no one in the living room that might have turned the radio on.

(not panicking, still not panicking)

 _It seems to be an agreement among the figure skating community that his last two years were rather lackluster compared to the rest of his career. Many still claim he wouldn't have been burnt out if he'd retired after the fifth championship._

Victor can't breathe.

This isn't his life.

This empty apartment full of medals and devoid of memories isn't his home. This piece of flesh that doesn't have a ring on it isn't his hand. This noise that doesn't remember the name of the man he loves isn't his voice.

 _Did I dream it all?_

 _Was_ he _just a dream after all?_

No.

No, Victor won't accept this.

He's real, he's real.

(what is his name)

He has to be real.

Real like his scent, soothing and musky and—

(what did he smell like)

Real like the touch of his hands, warm and delicate and loving and the feeling of his heartbeat under Victor's han—

(what did he feel like)

Real like the taste of his kisses, deep and hot with that little twinge of kats—

(what did he taste like)

Real like the sound of his voice calling Victor's name soft and gentle and—

(what did he sound like)

Real like his eyes.

(what color were they)

Real like the way he… (what did he do) He did something. He does _something_. Something that made Victor love him since the first time. Something in the way he… the musi- the shape of his—

(what did he look like)

He's panicking, he's definitely panicking.

No!

 _He's real, he's real._

(what is his name)

 _I love him and he's real._

(what is his name)

 _He's the love of my life._

(what is his name)

 _He inspires me, he gave me my life and love._

(what is his name)

(what is his name)

(what is his name)

The apartment is cold and empty.

Victor is alone.

He's fading away.

He's fading

Fading.

He's not real.

(who is he)

.

.

.

.

.

.

Victor sits up and gasps for breath and opens his eyes to a world of darkness. He pants, clutching at his heart. He's in bed again, but the weight on his chest is so heavy he can't move. He's afraid to look, afraid to find an empty bed in a cold apartment.

He's crying. His tears are cold and his eyes hurt, but his heart hurts even more. And he can't breathe and he's afraid to know.

"Victor?"

There's a hand on his and it pulls him back from the brink of death.

"Victor, what's wrong?"

He knows the name. He knows the name.

He's real and he's here and Victor knows his name.

" _Yuuri_."

He breathes, for the first time in his life it seems, and buries himself home, in Yuuri's arms.

Victor breathes him in heavy and musky and with a little bit of spice, and he's real.

Yuuri's hands are warm around his shoulders, and their touch is delicate and loving, and the feeling of his heartbeat against Victor's ears is steady and soothing, and he's real.

Victor finds his mouth, needy, and his kiss is hot and deep and with that little twinge of katsudon that survived the toothpaste, and he's real.

Yuuri calls his name soft and gentle, like he's afraid he'll break, and he's real.

"Victor, talk to me."

Light flickers on, casting away the darkness and Victor finds himself in _their_ bed, _their_ room, _their_ home. And he looks up to find Yuuri's eyes pinched with worry, they're big and brown and he's real.

"It's nothing, Yuuri." He finally finds his voice, wrapping his arms around Yuuri again. There's a ring on his finger and everything's real. "I'm sorry, Yuuri." He'll say the name again and again and again, because he remembers it and he loves it and loves the man it belongs to. "I'm okay now, Yuuri."

Yuuri's breath catches, just a little, like he's noticed.

"Had a nightmare?"

" _The worst."_

Yuuri doesn't ask more, and that's okay. He understands, even if he might not know. Victor still shivers in his arms.

"Thank you." Victor exhales, schooling down the beating of his heart. "For finding me."

Yuuri strokes his back and nudges him to lie down again, face still buried deep in the crook of Yuuri's neck, where he's safe, where he's home.

"It's the other way around, Victor. _You_ came for me."

Victor shakes his head, his hold on Yuuri tightening for a moment. If it hurts, Yuuri doesn't say anything, but Victor knows Yuuri is too kind, so he relaxes his fingers, just a little.

"You don't understand, Yuuri. There's seven billion people in this planet. We were born over 7000 kilometers apart." He's thought of this a lot, "And yet, by some miracle you saw me in Sofia and chased after me for years and years without giving up _, you never gave up_ , and you reached me." how big this world is and how, in spite of it, their paths still crossed. "I was losing myself and then you barged into my life. _You_ found _me_. And if you hadn't I…"

An empty apartment.

A lonely bed.

Cold medals.

Nothing else.

"But I did." Yuuri whispers against his hair. "I'm here and I'm not going anywhere. So you don't have to think about that anymore."

Victor shuts his eyes tight, the last tear sliding down his nose, but it's warm like Yuuri's embrace and it's real like the knowledge that tomorrow he'll be blessed again, and wake up in the arms of the man he loves.

 **End**

Don't ask me where this came from, I've no idea to the point that I don't know what to say about it

Needy Victor anyone?


End file.
